


best intentions

by saturnoperative



Category: The Legend of Zelda & Related Fandoms, The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild
Genre: Apocalypse, Deities, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Male-Female Friendship, Mind Manipulation, Original Character Death(s), Original Character(s), Romantic Friendship, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-13
Updated: 2019-06-13
Packaged: 2020-05-02 09:48:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19196434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saturnoperative/pseuds/saturnoperative
Summary: after the events of breath of the wild: zelda was supposed to have the power to defeat calamity ganon, with link by her side. it backfires, and the calamity returns, stronger. the people of hyrule are fleeing the kingdom, and the royal line is ended. zelda is lost and link must face calamity ganon's full potential alone, in an abandoned land.





	1. the calamity.

**Author's Note:**

> . a work in progress. new chapters will post as i write them.  
> . all character interpretations are my own.   
> . NOT a self-insert  
> . feel free to leave suggestions! :)

“Do you really remember me?” He did. Almost. Something was wrong. Her smile was the same. Her light, her presence, her eyes - that was it. Her eyes. A darkness. He knew those eyes well enough to sense it. Their glittering blue was tainted by a shadow. The same shadow he felt now closing in around his throat. It grew. How? It was gone. The darkness was gone, and she’d purged it. Gone. It had to be. Those eyes. He stared at them now, trying to find the light in them now that had only moments before destroyed the greatest evil he had ever faced. It shrank: a lantern receding into a poisonous fog. They weren’t the same anymore. She was fading before his eyes. Fading. Fading, as an invisible hand closed around his throat. _Move!_ _Move, you idiot, you’ll lose her!_ He blinked. Hot wind swirled around him, teasing his hair into tangled curls around his ears. The air smelled of death. Fading. He couldn’t lose her again. Lunging forward, he caught her as she swooned and fell. She was lighter than he had expected. Her skin was cold and she smelled of acrid smoke. Those beautiful eyes fluttered. They … were a colorless blue. It’s just the fog. Just the fog, he reassured himself. His scarred hands shook. So did she. Her body was trembling. The thick, hot air swirled furiously. His chest tightened. Something was watching them. Something great and evil. A hand brushed his. It was icy cold and deathly pale. She really was fading. The very flesh of her hand, limp and lifeless in his own, was crumbling. The wind was howling now. That sensation, that feeling of a looming beast waiting to pounce, was growing. It was growing and filling the valley. The grass was dying. The sun hid behind clouds of dark, poisoned rain. The beast’s massive corpse sprawled on the earth held a haunting, dark aura. She choked. All color had been leached from her. Desperately, he reached for her cheek. It dissolved at his touch. Her ash covered his knees now. She was nearly gone, but - a light? Something warm, and inviting: like a candle in a windowsill on a winter night. It grew from her breast, drifted for a moment before his eyes, now overflowing with hot, angry tears, and fluttered into the clouds of dust and smoke and disappeared. His arms were empty and he was chokingly, horribly numb. _She was gone_. As soon as his mind could even begin to fathom what was happening, a deep rumble rattled the rocks beside him and shook the earth. He turned to face the great beast’s looming corpse. Tendrils of purple-ish smog erupted from its stinking flesh, snaking across the field and writhing angrily, reaching and groping for him. He stood. The sword in his hilt glowed and he drew it. It felt heavier, and its chilling glow was flickering. The swarming fingers of evil magic galloped towards him and he planted his feet among the ash and the dead wildflowers. His eyes burned, filling with the stench of death, but he stared down the army of horrible swirling vines, reaching for him. The hand around his throat closed tighter. Tears ran lines through the dust on his cheeks. _For her._


	2. incarnation.

His sleep was dreamless and cold. The earth was hard, and his body burned. Even opening his eyes was a feat of strength. He was welcomed with the smell of burned foliage and rot. His chest felt full of smoke. A small, heaving cough broke through his dry, cracked lips. His mouth tasted of blood. Slowly, he mustered the will to roll onto his back, and was met with pain in every cell of his being. He coughed again. Blood. The sky was black. Roiling violet clouds fought angrily above him. The sun was gone. Carefully, he raised himself to his knees. The dirt was freckled with dark stains. The hilt of his sword clattered onto the earth. He hadn’t realized he’d been gripping it so hard his hands were white. The base of the blade had shattered. Shards of metal were scattered around him, each enveloped in an ugly, pulsating reddish energy. Unconsciously, he raised a hand to wipe his cheek. It came back blood-stained and patched with ash, but something writhed beneath. He warily brushed away the greyish dust. Patterns trailed their way across his skin. They were dark - almost black, but with an ugly violet iridescence - and snaked their way up each of his forearms in strange, angular patterns. Scattered among the lines were runes he couldn’t read. He stared at them. Slowly, something dark built inside his mind. The runes started to form nearly readable words. The darkness in the back of his mind grew. The more he stared, the more it pounded and beat on the inside of his skull, taking shape and growing into a beast that absorbed all of his thought and filled him with hate. He tore his eyes away from the markings on his skin. His chest heaved. He was tired again, and fell back heavily onto the hard earth. He hated how the sky looked now, but feared to close his eyes. He felt that the second he did, the thing inside his head would return, and he wouldn’t be able to drive it away again.

He didn’t know how long he’d been lying in the dirt where the beast had fallen. There was no night and day behind the awful, dark clouds, and he didn’t know how long he’d been asleep either. His mind was foggy. Names slipped him, even his own. He knew a little of what had happened before the battle on the field, but most seemed to be hidden behind a curtain, purposefully kept from him. The nagging sense that something else was in his mind with him would not leave.  Unable to muster the energy or the will to move any longer, he occupied himself with names. Names he knew, or thought he knew.  _ Zelda.  _ He knew that name. It came to him suddenly as he lay in the dead grass.  _ Zelda. Where is Zelda?  _ A will returned to him.  _ Zelda.  _ He had to find her. Her memory had come to him in an instant. He could see her clearly in his mind: every detail of her face, her eyes, her hair, her smile.  _ You must not lose her. Nothing matters but Zelda.  _ He struggled to roll onto his stomach. A shard of his sword nicked his arm and he felt fresh blood burst onto his skin. Slowly, he heaved himself again onto his knees, and then shakily to his feet.  _ Zelda.  _ The name had a power to it in his mind. He stumbled and nearly fell. Another cough rose to his lips, and he staggered forward. A pair of strong arms caught him.

“There, friend.” The voice was unfamiliar. He felt the surge of power that had come to him only moments before drain from his body. His knees hit the dirt, but the stranger’s arms caught him again and he was lifted off of the ground. He gave in. His limbs went limp and he felt a trickle of blood run down his chin. A warm hand quickly brushed it away. “Come,” the voice said. His head bobbed against the stranger’s chest, and he struggled to keep his eyes open, though it was no use. Everything was blurred, and a dark sheen veiled his vision. He felt himself being lifted again, and heard the soft huffing of a horse. The strong arms held his waist, and the voice gently urged the horse forward. He bounced a little, and the arms held him tighter. Though his mind was foggy, the name stuck.  _ Zelda.  _ He repeated it.  _ Zelda. Where is Zelda? I cannot lose Zelda. Zelda is all that matters.  _ Stil, instinct told him something was wrong. He grappled again with his thoughts until the stranger’s soft voice spoke again. “You’re lucky, little master.” The voice calmed his roiling mind. “Hyrule Field was laid waste three days ago. Nobody who saw what happened survived. And it seems you barely did, friend.” The stranger’s chest pressed against his back, bouncing lightly with the horse’s footfalls. “Going up. Careful,” the voice said softly. The arms around his waist tightened. 

Soon the gentle rocking of the horse made him realize his weariness again. He felt his eyes finally drift closed, and he slumped a little against the stranger in the saddle. An image flashed in his mind. Again, he was not alone inside his head. Hate, white-hot and sharp, pierced his chest and he gasped, his eyelids flying open. An arm caught him as he nearly slid out of the saddle. He coughed again, his lungs burning. The stranger pulled the horse to a stop. “Shh. Here.” His vision still clouded and dark, he saw only a shadow. The now nearly-familiar arms of the stranger lifted him to the ground. He felt cool water touch his dry, bloodstained lips. “We’re nearly there. Then you can rest, little master.” The water gave him a little strength, and he nodded wearily. He was lifted back onto the mount, and the stranger’s arms again held his waist. He almost felt safe.

The world around him was crumbling. He saw shadows passing on the road, heard countless worried whispers, and had a sinking feeling that as he regained his memories and his strength, no questions would be answered, and no stories would be any happier. He again found himself dwelling on names. His own was lost to him somewhere in the fog of his mind. 

The stranger hadn’t spoken again. It had started to rain, and the horse they were riding huffed with annoyance as she was spurred on faster. 

He heard voices. The rain had slowed, and through its lethargic patter on the road and on the cloaks of the riders they carried, chattering and whispering. The horse stopped and tossed her head. “Home,” the stranger said quietly. The strong arms lifted him again and he felt himself being carried like a child, half draped over the stranger’s shoulder and half carefully cradled, as if he was fragile. The rain had soaked through his tattered blue cloak, now stained with blood from his many wounds and caked with ash from the battle on the field, and he felt himself shivering. The voices were louder. He heard many women’s voices, and the stranger’s above all. “Take him inside. He is wounded and sick. Do not let him die. And one of you, fetch Paya.” He was lowered from the stranger’s arms into the grasp of a woman, and hurried away. There were many voices now, all around him, speaking in hushed whispers and soft words. Someone shooed them away, and then it was quiet. A soft hand laid him beside the light of a small lantern and cut his ruined cloak off of his back. Again, he fought sleep and pure fatigue and tried in vain to keep his eyes open, but weariness overtook him and his eyelids soon became too heavy to bear. Darkness washed over him and he fell into sleep. 


End file.
